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Prelude - Part 1 of 4

This is the journal of Word-Knower the Tall. This is my name, and it has been for some time now. How long is hard to tell, for the Ogres of the Ochre Banners, who are my masters and my travel-companions, place little importance on the passing of time and its measurement. I am writing this journal that, when I am finally able to escape this life, I will be better equipped to tell my story.

I will state for the record that I am a man - a human born in the light of Sigmar's blessings. I am no fierce warrior, no wise wizard, nor have I ever been. In a different time, commerce was my trade - I was a merchant of the Empire, buying and selling food, weapons, materials, trinkets and more across my beloved homeland and beyond. But this was a different time. Though my Ogre overlords understand that I am a human, and not a Gnoblar, for all intents and purposes that is now my role within society - that of a lowly Gnoblar.

I should take this opportunity to express also that I am in fact not Word-Knower the Tall, for this name is only used by Gohrte the Slaughtermaster, my mistress, and by my fellow Gnoblar servants. The vast majority of this society knows me as Gohrte’s Gnoblar, or Gohrte’s Tall Gnoblar, if they are feeling particularly polite (which I should note is a rare occasion).

But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Indeed I should start at the beginning. The day I became a captive of the Ochre Banners.

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Hello All, what you've just read is the beginning of a running series of Ogre-based fan-fiction from an avid Ogre player. I've read all the Fantasy armybooks for Ogres (yes,, all two of them!), and write out of a love of history, anthropology, the original Warhammer Fantasy universe, and especially a love of Ogres.

Feel free to ask any questions as we go along - I have quite a few chapters written already, but I'll upload them weekly on a Monday to have time to edit them properly before releasing them to the public.

Thank you all for reading - may the Great Maw guide ye!

Prelude - Part 2 of 4

I must begin by admitting that my memory of the events that led to my current life are unclear and contradictory, even unto me. The ordeals this life has brought have dulled my mental capacities, and it has taken me some time to work up the courage to write again, as I once did regularly. True enough, it seems hard to believe there ever was a time when I did not sleep huddled in a pile with greenskins half my size; when I ate more than choice scraps and raw meat, and didn't cherish the opportunity to drink the gunky froth of Ogor Ale that is deemed too unsavoury for my masters. This life breeds little room for memory and reminiscence. Nevertheless, I will venture to illustrate my tale as best I can.

I was aware of whom the Ochre Banner Tribes were - I had in fact seen them once before, far in the distance on a dusty summer day. A nomadic collection of Ogre tribes that for years - perhaps decades - have travelled aimlessly across the Badlands, occasionally venturing north through the lands of the Border Princes, following distinctive yellow banners that herald their approach, as lightning heralds thunder. Me and my fellow traders from the Empire thought them savages bent on nothing but plunder and destruction, though perhaps a more welcome kind of savage than the war-mad Ork or the drug-crazed Goblin. It was known that the Ochre Tribes are not above sparing the life of a city or a traveller should a generous tribute be offered, which made them a far less despairing prospect than the odious Greenskins and their warmongering worship of heathen gods.

Yet I am the teller of a time when tribute was not offered, for which the consequences were dire.

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Week two and I'm already a day late with the upload! Was really busy with uni this week and it slipped my mind -_-

I didn't know how to remove the yellow highlight from 'raw'

Hope people enjoy it!

Prelude - Part 3 of 4

Panic ran through the streets as we heard the thunderous crashing of the gates. The brave defenders of the city did their best to stop the advancing horde of flesh, but its fury was unmatched by wizardry or vigour. They set two of the city’s quarters ablaze before they tired of their plundering and retreated. I watched the burning houses grow smaller in the distance, gripping the cold steel of my cage with a chorus of wails and frightened screams all around me.

It is hard to say how long I lived in those cages, hanging on the hide of fearsome beasts or on the backs of rickety carts, as the Ochre Banners journeyed their never-ending voyage. Many of my fellow captives died of wounds sustained during the sacking of the city, or illness, or were eaten for snacks, or killed for being too noisy. Those of us that survived had but one purpose - to be sold into slavery. It surprised me to learn during my captivity what a thriving economy of slaves exists beyond the reach of Sigmar’s light. Necromancers bought us for their undead courts, Chaos-worshipers for their macabre rituals, and mysterious Beastmen of a sort I'd never seen before - half man, half rat - purchased slaves for unknown purposes I shudder to imagine. The Ogres had truly made a name for themselves, for even the ruinous followers of the blood god would at times seek to trade with rather than challenge the Ochre horde.

Every day was a struggle for survival. We fought like rats over whatever scraps our captors might bestow, and huddled like family to try and stave off the nightly cold. I barely knew any of my fellow slave’s names, for the fear of incurring the Ogre’s wrath stopped us from speaking anything above a whisper. There was one, however, with whom I found common ground. A Dwarf by the name of Gendri, who had been in captivity yet longer than I. He had been a warrior and a traveller in days prior, and we shared stories of the lands we had visited, of noteworthy drinking houses, and of the tiresome pride of the Elves. But my friend Gendri was ultimately unlike me. He did not have the will to survive whatever the cost - or perhaps he had too much pride to. One day he resolved to change his fate. He had observed that above all our overlords respected strength, and was set on making such a display that they would surely let him go free. He was a good and honourable dwarf, if a foolish one.

Prelude - Part 4 of 4

My friend Gendri finally got his wish. During a feast night - when the Ogres would be most given to sport and entertainment - Gendri took the opportunity to challenge our masters for his freedom. At first he was met by laughter and insult, but one of the Ogres was curious and bored enough to accept his offer. An Irongut stood up to take him on in a wrestling match. Gendri was let out, and the Ogre dispensed of all his cumbersome pieces of looted and roughly cobbled together armour, revealing a paunch of daunting size. A circle was formed around them, and though it was hard to see past the screaming giants, I can at least say with confidence that the Dwarf put up a fierce fight. But for all his bravery and conviction, his foe was many times his size, and a renowned and accomplished warrior besides. When the fight was over, and the circle of brutes dispersed, nothing was there left of my friend but his long brown hair and beard - the only parts deemed too unsavoury to eat.

I had all but lost hope by this time. I know at least that I had lived for months in this bestial state. I knew what Gendri had thought was true - that strength could set me free. But I had no hope of ever besting even a child-Ogre in single combat. I had however observed that amongst the Ogre thrived another creature, smaller and weaker than myself, and yet able to travel with the giants freely, and in greater safety than I enjoyed. A race of lowly greenskins known as Gnoblars.

Gnoblars are truly unremarkable to behold. They are small, their arms and legs are thin and scrawny, and about half their body-weight is taken by their long ears and prominent noses that so deform the face they barely share a resemblance to any thinking creature. And yet every beast in the horde has a handful of these creatures hanging onto their hides. Every machine is maintained by them, and every Ogre of renown has at least one of these verminous pests perched about their shoulders, or hanging from oversized pockets as they travel. The Ogre does not merely tolerate the Gnoblar - it forms a valuable part of his society and tribal lifestyle. 'very well then' I resolved to myself, as I watched my friend Gendri's skull shatter in the mandibles of the merciless Irongut. 'If that is what it takes to survive…'

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One full chapter down, and I don't think I met the Monday deadline once

I hope some people are reading and enjoying this piece - please feel free to drop comments/criticisms/death-threats!

Becoming a Gnoblar - Part 1 of 3

My plan was simple, but in that simplicity lay my problem. I must somehow convince one of these giants that I was useful. That I was of more worth to them alive than as food, and more worth as a companion than property to be sold - a task much easier said than done, for the Ogre is a remarkably dull and stubborn creature by nature. I waited a long time for an opportunity to present itself - I was not as strong as a beast of burden, and my mechanical expertise was dwarfed by the surprising ingenuity of the Gnoblar. My talents lay in trade - that was the primary matter of my life before captivity. I waited for an opportunity to prove my value, but no opportunity ever came. In time, I became desperate. I had a pain in my stomach that grew worse day by day, and I feared the end might be near. But it all changed one evening, as the darkness was setting in.

A band of young Ogre Bulls returned to camp after raiding some unhappy town. They brought their loot to the centre of the camp, where their seniors gathered to take what part of the loot they saw fit, as was the custom. The young raiders were then free to split the rest between themselves. I watched as I clutched at my burning stomach. They dumped their loot on the muddy, torch-lit ground. The Ironguts and Bruisers picked their way through the trinkets and peasant food, taking what little there was of value. One of the Bruisers opened a bag, and drew a book from within - this was when I snapped. Perhaps it was my aching entrails, or my foolish desperation, but I screamt out ‘I can read!’

Becoming a Gnoblar - Part 2 of 3

Nobody heard. I screamt as loud as I could, but the Ogres were too loud and dumb to notice. I took up a large bone that had been left in my cage and struck it hard against the cage until it snapped. I kept on screaming and screaming my statement, until I realised everyone had turned to look my way. Though there was the fierceness of a lion in the Bruiser's gaze, I somehow kept screaming. ‘I can read! I can read that book for you!’ The Bruiser tilted his head towards a Gnoblar perched on his armour, who whispered something in his ear. ‘I can read 5 languages - elvish, dwarvish, I can read that book for you! Please!’ The few Ogres who could understand me started laughing. They made jokes and spat at me. I screamed again, and this time the Bruiser lost his nerve. He threw the book down and marched towards me. He tore open the steel cage with his hands, grabbed my neck and pulled me out. The world spun around me. The sweaty hand of the brute was warm, with skin so rough I could hardly believe it wasn’t leather. The Ogor screamed all around me. I felt his grip tighten. Then suddenly everyone fell silent. A sharp, high pitched metallic sound cut through the air. I heard something approaching from behind me, sharpening a sword or an axe. The sickening shrill growl of a Gnoblar addressed me. ‘You can read?’ It asked me. Barely conscious, I struggled through my neck a faint ‘yes…’ There followed a short argument between the Bruiser and another Ogor behind me. Then silence.

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Double entry today because I missed last week!

Becoming a Gnoblar - Part 3 of 3

I lost consciousness for a second. When I woke up I was lying on the cool, muddy ground, looking up at the torches and Ogres passing by me. They all looked down on me as I went. Something was dragging me by the leg, but I was too weak to look down. I was pulled into a tent, and the young Bull dragging me bent down, pulled me up by the collar, and sat me down on a chair with a strength that might have broken my spine. Then he left. The Gnoblar from before walked on the table next to me - it was small, but walked more upright than the majority of its fellows. It carried a heavy book, and slammed it next to me. With a scrawny, green finger it pointed at the tome and said ‘read’.

‘Please… water…’ I stuttered. There was no response. In my best attempt at the Ogres' brutish pronunciation I muttered what I guessed to be the word for ‘drink’ in their barbaric language, which I’d attempted to decipher through my time in captivity. A hard slap from the creature woke me up. It pointed at the book and spoke shrilly, but all the same clearly and eloquently: ‘Read first, then you may have some water.’

It was at this point that I noticed a sound that had persisted within the tent. The same metallic sound of a blade being sharpened. But it was not a sword or an axe, as I had thought - it was a meat cleaver of gigantic proportions. And holding it was an enormous Ogress, wearing a red-stained apron, and hung with a hundred knives, hooks, spoons, and hammers. Gohrte was her name, and remains to this day my master.

The book I had been handed was a cookery book. The recipes inside were simple, designed for country ingredients and cold winter nights - many of them I was familiar with. It became clear to me why this Butchress had decided to save my life - she had books she could not read. I spent that first night helping her make a traditional goulash. Every instruction I read was repeated in the Ogre's language by the Gnoblar, and every one of those commands was met by a pitter-patter of feet under the tables, in the shadows, and inside open crates, as other filthier and clearly more subordinate Gnoblars appeared with every ingredient that was called for - each of them astonishingly fresh and well preserved. I hoped the she-Ogre might spare me some of the victual as a recompense, but no sooner had she delicately taste-tested the broth by drinking a modest amount from her ladel that she put down her instruments, took up the pot, which was large enough for a man to fit his head inside, with her bare hands - I could hear her leathery flesh singeing on the cast-iron - and poured the whole goulash down her throat, bones and all. After the roughly 20 seconds it took her to drink the still piping-hot stew, she wiped her lips on her forearm, let out a steaming belch of sickening stench, and spat out an Ogrish word through her deformed mandibles as she turned back to her work disembowelling pigs. The Gnoblar approached me with a sack of water. I greedily reached out for it, but it held it back. ‘I am Soft-Hands.' it said; 'That is Gohrte. She is your master.’ The diminutive Greenskin stared hard at me until I conceded to my harsh reality. ‘She is my master…’ I stuttered. And for the first time in many months, I drank cool, fresh water.

The Long March

I had accomplished my goal - to become a valuable servant to an Ogre of high status. I had not, however, envisioned myself serving one of the most gruesome and metaphysically disturbing creatures I’ve ever witnessed. The Slaughtermaster of an Ogre tribe is a position of immense honour - often more so than the Tyrant, for though the King Ogre’s decisions are absolute, and only to be defied with strength even greater than his own, Butchers and Slaughtermasters are the avatars of the Great Maw - the voracious deity that looms over every day of the Ogre’s life, providing example and terror in equal measure. The Tyrant speaks for the tribe; the Butcher speaks for the Maw. But the unholy shamanistic appetite of my new mistress was not the foremost of my concerns at the offset of my servitude, for I soon found the life of a Gnoblar servant is not an easy one by any extent.

Two days passed, which I thank Sigmar for - without these days of respite I never would have garnered the strength to make it through my upcoming trial. I was finally permitted some food and water, sickening scraps though they were, while I continued to decipher the Ogress’ impressive collection of looted manuscripts. Written in various tongues, scripts, and dialects, it took me much effort to decrypt the meaning of some - a fact I naturally kept from those around me. I was all too aware, should I prove unable to read the matter of these tomes, my brains may well be the centrepiece of my mistress’ next concoction. But after these two days the Tribes began to ready for their next long march. We had remained in this spot for nay a week, and already food began to grow scarce. I found there is a terrible weight to the voracious hunger the Ogres carry with them, though that is perhaps a story for another time. I helped to load the cart as best I could with the sparse communication I could muster. Soft-Hands - who at the time was my only avenue of communication with the horde - is the prime secretary to this Shaman of the Maw. I came to realise the creature was entrusted with all manner of tasks, and knew entirely by instinct what the mistress’ needs were. Soft-Hands, and only he, could speak my language, though he often felt little disposed to work as my translator. I knew not yet the language of my captors as I do now. Once we were done loading her caravan, the first of my great trials began

The cart had been fully loaded. Slabs of meat; piles of vegetables; stacks of looted wines and ales; and the thousand-and-one spices my mistress carried with her - toad-tongues, vulture-bones, mandrake-root, unicorn-hoof, eye-of-elf, and many such gruesome items. As the Ogres began to march I tried to climb aboard the caravan but was immediately repulsed by a sudden cacophony of shrieks, yells, slaps, and hisses. My mistress’ Gnoblars blocked me as I attempted to climb aboard. It only took a couple of attempts to determine that I would not be allowed to travel atop the cart. My mistress settled down to sleep as the cart began to move, completely unphased by my plight, while Soft-Hands sat atop the head of the domesticated Rhinox pulling the cart to steer it along. At this point I foolishly thought to myself there must be some hierarchy between the servants that I had not yet climbed - that perhaps it was too soon to be permitted to travel on the caravan. The wheels began creaking beneath my mistress’ weight as the Rhinox pulled with all its might to get the contraption moving. I did then what seemed like the only option, and began to walk.

For two days the caravans marched without stopping. Every time I approached the caravan to try and lean against it - to steal a second’s respite for my feet - the rabble of Gnoblars that are my peers began hissing and screaming at me until I relented. In the worst cases, where my desperation brought me to try and withstand the slaps and yells, they began to swing knives and chains. It did not take long for me to realise: if I push these creatures, they are more than happy to kill me on the spot.

I walked for what seemed like an eternity. I learned then that Ogres are remarkably sturdy creatures. Though their enormous bellies may seem like a liability - the result of a decadent lifestyle - in truth their physique is ideally suited to the challenges of their world. The fat they carry with them allows them to walk for hours on end without resting or slowing, drawing from their thick, fatty reserves like camels in the desert. Their legs are broad and hard, their posture straight, and their stride rhythmic. From watching them march one might assume they’d been trained and drilled as soldiers in a barracks, but this almost somnambulous walk comes entirely naturally to them, and allows them to cross country efficiently at a frightening pace. I myself, by comparison, regretted all the days I had spent on horseback or sleeping with my wares in a cart. My feet were covered in bruises, cuts, and blisters on the first night we made rest. Every new march I attempted to board the caravan, hoping the greenskins had grown accustomed to me by this point, and every time I was rejected. There were marches where I thought perhaps it would be wiser to just walk in another direction - to simply abandon my servitude and test my luck with the elves, beastmen, greenskins, and heretics that dwell in the wild places of the world. But a single sideways glance from an Ogre would remind me that, without Ghorte’s protection, I’d soon become a snack to the ever-hungry brutes. The migrations of these Ogres were more than my tired body could bear. Even after several marches it became apparent to me that my legs would never accrue the fortitude of the Ogres, Rhinoxen, Mournfangs, Stonehorns, and other such titanic beasts that march alongside them. I began to fear for my life once more.

It was on my fifth or sixth march - it has been now such a long time - that I realised I had misunderstood something in this imagined ‘hierarchy’ of the Gnoblars. I awoke one morning as the caravan was beginning to set out. I had not been woken to help with the loading as usual, and instead awoke to the giggling and laughing of my greenskin fellows. I looked to see that they were burning something, and when they saw me they all scampered and climbed aboard the cart, just as it began to move off. When I looked at what it was they were burning, I found there, already blackened and almost unrecognisable: my boots. The miserable leather traps I had managed to keep throughout my captivity and up to this point. The only salvation I could hope for in these long marches. I tried to save them, but it was far too late. The Gnoblars hissed their giggles as the cart moved off. I had no choice but to walk barefoot.

The Gnoblars never tired of tormenting me, and the pain of my feet, with their laughter. I walked for hours until I could no longer feel the ground I stepped on. I began to realise that these weren’t mere initiation trials - that the Gnoblars had no intention of ever accepting me as one of their own. I saw then that they were all afraid. Afraid like me to become a small meal to the hungry giants we travelled with. Afraid that one more servant would mean one less needed. They were going to force me to walk to my death. I looked behind me to see a trail of bloody footsteps where I went. And I snapped.

I rushed the caravan screaming, scrambling to climb aboard. There followed the usual torrent of yells and shrieks, but this time I did not relent. I met their barbarity with my own, hissing, screaming, waving my arms like an ape in a circus. I spat and swatted at them, uncaring of the cuts they made with their weapons. I held onto the cart until my feet dragged behind it. There was laughter all around us. The Ogres were cheering us on, waving their fists in the air, and making bets on who would win - a welcome entertainment in their restless voyaging. The cacophony of sound eventually rose to such a level that even my mistress, a powerful sleeper while on her cart, was roused. She bellowed a deafening roar, and suddenly all around us went silent. The Ogres giggled under their breaths, unable to contain their amusement, but fearful of the Slaughtermaster’s anger. The Gnoblars turned back to me, hissing as they vacated a trifle space at the edge of the cart. I climbed aboard and tried to lie down, but this was a step too far. Even at the risk of waking the mistress again, they warned me with murmured growls. I sat at the edge of the cart, with one leg hanging off the back, holding on as every bump in the road felt like it might knock me off. And so on that day, as I slowly felt the blood returning to my feet, and keenly experienced every abrasion and laceration I had collected along the way, I understood the first and foremost truth of life in the kingdom of the Ogre: those who will not fight, will not live.

I am Word-Knower

I have now reached the point in my tale where my life changed. The developments of my position in the social hierarchy continued slowly, and dare I say less dramatically than before. My first time upon the cart did not indicate my last day of marching - indeed for about a dozen more voyages thereafter a scramble would break out between myself and the Gnoblars every time the migration began. Some of these fights I lost, and some I won, until eventually, after I had caused enough cuts, bruises, broken bones, and lost fingers, they begrudgingly tolerated my presence on the cart.

On the subject of Gnoblars, many of my greenskin peers have no names to speak of. A simple ‘hey you!’ in their direction is enough to facilitate communication. Of those serving Ghorte, alongside myself, three are called Cutter; four are called Tenderiser; and about a dozen more have no names of any sort. Those that are given names receive them for whatever such are their tasks in the slaughtermaster’s gruesome rituals. It is only those of higher prestige, such as Soft-Hands, Wiener, and Fire-Master that receive names unique to them (though naturally they are no less descriptive). In this sense I can consider myself fortunate, for the particular of my servitude permitted me a name almost in no time at all. Verily the first time I heard Soft-hands yell out ‘Word-Knower!’, and understood I was the one being addressed, I immediately felt a tremendous sense of safety - for any Gnoblar with a name no more specific than a menial task is easily disposable. I consider myself fortunate not to be one such Gnoblar.

In my capacity as Word-Knower I have read much. In my past life I had learned Dwarven Runes and elven and human scripts to facilitate my trading ventures. I had learned local languages for the same purpose, only delving into books in as far as they could aid my barter. But now I consider I must be nothing short of a scholar. I have read dozens of tomes, and many of them have almost been committed to memory. My mistress, so Soft-Hands once told me, had begun collecting these tomes long before my capture, and had acquired a sizable collection since then, knowing somehow that there was knowledge in these that she could make use of someday. Unsurprisingly however, her only interest was in food; all she cared for was understanding the diets and culinary traditions of other peoples. When I began to decipher these many books, she was more than happy to throw those outside her subject area into the fire to heat up her stews, or just as well into the pot to cook with everything else. I insisted I be allowed to keep those that were unwanted, and it was conceded so long as I understood they were my burden to bear - mine to care for, and mine to carry with me, as no space nor time would be spared for tomes of such petty trivialities as military strategy, national histories, encyclopaedias, or arcane mysteries. I insisted on keeping these tomes however, on the pretence that they would allow me to better hone my craft. To my chagrin it became soon apparent that I would not be able to carry all this reading material about me wherever I went, and soon I became selective of what books I stored and which I sacrificed to the Mawpot. At any rate, I can confidently say I have become far better read now than any of my fellows in my previous life.

The Ochre Horde

To follow on further from my position in this society, I am now recognised by the Ogres of the horde as a slave to Ghorte, such that I am safe to travel the camp in relatively safety. I must naturally keep my distance from Bruisers and Hunters, whose tempers and status preclude them from showing restraint, even at the risk of triggering a feud with the Slaughtermaster. I likewise stay well enough away from the tents of the Tyrants, which tend to congregate in a sort of 'inner circle' surrounded by a crude barricade of stakes, skulls, and tusks - they suffer not any servants to approach them, safe those who serve directly under them. And most of all I keep away from the rearmost quarter of the camp, which is always settled on by the Vulture Tribe - a clan known to live out most of their adult lives on the backs of fierce beasts of many descriptions; from colossal Stonehorns to voracious Mournfangs. These latter beasts in particular are prized for their unrestrained ferocity and violent tendency, and little is done to dissuade them from leaping at any fresh meat that wanders too close. Amongst my fellow servants the situation is also less violent than it was during those early days of my servitude. Though they are still wont to pilfer any food or trinkets I may fail to keep an eye on, we converse openly on many subjects; these creatures, it turns out, are much more given than the Ogres to parle and socialise, even if it is a craven, mistrustful, and opportunistic sort of society they foster.

In my wandering about the camp I have learned much about my captors that I would like to share. I noticed early on that the outskirts of the camp were littered with small clusters of Ochre Banners. At first I believed that they were vanguard outposts, or warnings to would-be threats, until I noticed there were tents amongst them as well. Fire-Master informed me that the Ochre Banners do not travel in a single group. Indeed the Tribes have grown so large and numerous that many splinter caravans settle smaller camps near and far from the main camp. The only rule is that they always must remain within sight of the flagpoles in the central camp. Being as they are, the Ogres of these splinter groups often quarrel and feud with one another - primarily over prime land to settle on, with smaller and weaker groups sometimes huddling by the base of a cliff, while the soft green pasture is reserved for the vast and the fierce. However there seems to be an ambience of civility - if it can be called that - surrounding political disagreements amongst the Banners, for conflicts of this kind are rarely resolved through wanton bloodshed, but rather through more ritualised forms of violence, such as wrestling or brawling, which will invariably result in blood, unconsciousness, and some lost teeth or fingers, but won’t often result in fatalities. Such a case is considered a breach in fact, and the more superstitious amongst them even consider it a bad omen. Should a contest result in the death of a combatant the victor will still retain the spoils they are entitled to, but due recompense must be presented to the bereft. Such extraordinary feats of compassion, I am sure, must be the sole reason the horde has grown so large, and so stable, over what I have pieced together to be numerous generations.

The Ogres’ arrangement of splinter groups serves to protect the well-being of the central group, and of the Tribes as a whole. Threats are unlikely to penetrate to the core camp without being spotted and intercepted by one of the splinter groups - a matter of supreme importance, for the central camp hold and guard the great larder; perhaps the single most sacred beacon of the horde. The great larder is a tent of enormous size, lavishly 'decorated' (if the crude aesthetic sense of the Ogre can be called a 'decoration'); blessed with primitive wards and symbols; filled to the brim with meats, vegetables, and other edibles of endless descriptions. The food held within could undoubtedly feed an entire city of the Borderlands for a whole winter, but to the Ogres it represents a mere trifle sum - a pittance that would be gone within under a week should it not hold a sort of divine sanctity to the ever-hungry brutes. In turn should a splinter group be faced by a considerable threat the central camp will organise a quick counter-attack of cavalry, followed by a more substantial army led by the fierce Tyrants. Furthermore travelling in such a wide line allows the Ogre to cover more ground, consuming every last morsel of plant, animal, and otherwise edible material on a vast swathe as they migrate ever onwards. I must admit the lifestyle of these creatures has come to greatly fascinate me - it is of some wonder what they might achieve should they one day leave behind these barbaric ways and settle to build cities, kingdoms, and civilisations.

Hunger

I have come to understand that there is a terrible curse that follows the footsteps of these seemingly unbestable creatures. I had once believed that the Great Maw is as Khorne is to his frenzied followers, or as the savage Gork and Mork are to the Orks and their ilk, who fight never-ending war in the example of these feral gods. But the Maw is wholly different from any of them. It is indeed a force of war that spurs them onto violence; and it is in fact a being that punishes gentleness and rewards brutality. But more than any of these, the Maw is a desire and a fear that every ogre feels, from the day of their birth to the hour of their death - hunger. The Ogre consumes unthinkable amounts of food and drink, even for its titanic size. I have at times seen a Rider consume more meat than its Mournfang steed, and an entire barrel of ale is drunk by a single bull during a feast. This ceaseless consumption allows their bodies to grow large, their muscles heavy, and their skin thick to withstand the most untenable challenges of nature. But as beneficial as their bottomless stomachs clearly are, it is conversely a considerable challenge to upkeep the ceaseless feasting.

A bull Ogre must eat at least as much food as five of my fellows would do on a good day of feasting and merry-making every day to maintain a healthy weight. Multiply this by the hundreds - perhaps thousands that compose a tribe, and the arithmetic quickly becomes impossible to resolve. Different Ogre groups meet this challenge in different ways: some establish themselves at the cross-roads of lucrative trade-routes, braving the defenders of these caravans, knowing that the risks meet the rewards of victory, or otherwise taxing them heavily for 'protection' fees; others settle on lands verdant and abundant, which they must then guard tirelessly from covetous rivals - not only other Ogres, but Beastmen, Greenskins, and if some of the literature I've gotten my hands on as of late is to be believed, a powerful nation of men called Ind; many other Ogre tribes, such as the Ochre Banners themselves, have chosen the lifestyle nomadic, wherein they travel the vastness of the world, finding fresh pastures, bountiful forests, valuable trade routes, or weak towns upon which to feed. The banners have so thoroughly dedicated themselves to this form of subsistence that it is now impossible for them to survive without it, for verily there isn't a place upon this vast world that could produce enough food to feed the never-ending horde of flesh.

Thus we march. Through bog and mire; through wood and glen; through plain and hill, the marching of horde never halts for more than a week. Whenever we first make camp, the land is teeming with hares and berries; the skyes dotted with birds on the wing; and the rivers bursting with fish and shell. But I have seen now a hundred times the state of the land as the caravans ready to march. No animal scurries along the surface. Even the rat and the shrew serve as food to the Gnoblars who specialise in hunting them. All birds have been plucked from the skyes by the Ogres’ Blood-Vultures, and the stream itself has been drunk dry by the thirst of these barbarians and their beasts. Those creatures that normally find refuge in the damp earth are also at no safety, as moles and badgers are scraped out of their burrows by the spear-like tusks of the Mournfang, and weed and grass is eradicated by the unceasing munching of the Rhinox. In less than a single lunar cycle the Ogres can turn a green land of plenty into a veritable waste, dotted here and there with piles of dung whose stench waft through the dry air. I know now, with no room for doubt, that if the tribes ever remained still for more than a week, they would surely starve.

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Dear Readers,

I hope you are enjoying the story thus far! I apologise for the slowness of updates - I started university back in September and it has really reduced the time I had to write. But rest assured that Word-Knower has yet many tales to tell! Elaborating on the political structures of the Ogres; delving into the biology and society of the Mournfang and the Rhinox; and recounting the tales of mighty Ogre characters!

I hope to find time to bring these to you soon.

Thanks for reading!

Crime and Justice of the Maw

There is perhaps no more sorrowful sight amongst the Ogres than a tribe gone hungry. The unbearable pain hunger causes drives them to extremes of madness and violence that break even the strongest conventions of civility they hold. One such thing happened after a dark night, when a raiding party of the Elves of the Wood managed to seize upon the horde by moonlight. They infiltrated the camp, sabotaging their equipment, slitting a few throats; but worse of all they set the sacred larder aflame. When the fire was at last extinguished, half of the horde's surplus had been eradicated. Slaughtermaster Ghorte and the other Butchers of the many tribes immediately convened on this precarious predicament, and within but a few hours they announced their decision - 1 week of strict rationing so the larder could be restocked. The decision was single-sidedly despised. Such ferocious argument did the Butchers face that Ghorte's Gnoblars and I hid trembling in a tent, fearing for our wretched lives. All manner of warrior yelled their insult at the terrifying Butchers, who yet stood firm in their decision. Riders claimed their steeds would be lethargic without food; Ironguts and Leadbelchers that they’d be unable to wield their colossal armaments. But the decision did not rest solely with them - to be enacted it first had to be approved by the Tyrants.

I learned on this day that the position of the tyrant is not one of absolute and unchecked power - an Ogre who chooses to challenge for the title is not giving themselves to an easy task, for the responsibility of caring for the Tribe is an immense burden to bear. A tyrant must ensure that food is abundant to his people, whether through raiding, migrating, trading, or hunting - whatever means are necessary. The rewards are indeed great for those Tyrants who prove themselves capable providers, enjoying a lifestyle of endless food and wine, and the choicest weapons, armours and trinkets that the tribe might have to offer. And yet heavens help the Tyrant should the tribe go hungry, for though on any given day a Tyrant can squarely dispatch a score of brash challengers, when a whole tribe converges in fammished indignation, even the mightiest of leaders need fear for his life. I think perhaps the Tyrants knew in this occasion that responsibility lay on their shoulders for the damage to the Larder, as it is amongst their greatest duties to ensure its safety. Whether they feared the long-term consequences of sacrificing the Butchers as escape goats, or god-fearing they dare not challenge the word of the Butchers (which is indeed the word of the Maw), feeling the heavy weight of the crown they relented. The decree was ratified; rations were enforced; and the consequences would be dire.

It had not been two days since that a group of young bulls stole a single leg of Rhinox from the Larder in their desperate hunger. The culprits were swiftly caught, and the tribe gathered around them to impart judgement. Such a circle of sullen, pale, and hungry faces I had never witnessed before in my time of servitude. The guilty knelt in a row with their heads hung low. I could almost swear one of them was weeping, if the Ogre is capable of such a thing. Ghorte walked past them one by one. She walked back and forth under the light of an hundred torches, and the eyes of a thousand starving jaws. She took the first of these perpetrators by the hair, and hacked her head clean off in a single strike of her colossal cleaver. A wave of bellows and screams followed - like the roaring of the angry waves it drowned out the the very thoughts within one's head. Such a response to displays of violence are common amongst the Ogres, but this time it was different. The Ogor weren’t cheering - they weren’t celebrating; their howls were so mournful as to wring sympathy even from myself. As Ghorte hacked the head off the second perpetrator we were observing the fulfilment of the Maw’s cruel will.

Two Ogres had Ghorte executed without a second’s pause. The third, however, she would choose to spare. For whatever unknown reasons, rather than executing him, she grabbed his head in both hands and threw her modified jaws into his face. The bull screamed in agony, and yet put up no fight to his fate. When she let go of him, he fell to the ground, blood draining from a hollow eye-socket. Of 8 young Bulls and Wenches that day, she only spared two. Once the hogs had been slaughtered, silence befell the congregation. The Slauhtermaster gave a short, dismissive look at the Tyrants before leaving the circle. And then followed an act so gruesome and revolting I can hardly contain my stomach to just remember it. The crowd descended, screaming and wailing, and threw themselves upon the slaughtered. They ripped cloth in their hands and tore at flesh with their teeth. They ate all that was there left of them - the meat, the organs, and the bones, until the last few and most desperate of them were left licking the blood off the muddy ground. All except for the Tyrants, who never moved an inch. They stoically watched with sombre expressions, feigning strength before their own hunger. one of them - perhaps the youngest of these brutal leaders, seemed as though he were about to surge forward and join in the feasting, but the largest of all the Tyrants - Khal Thunderbelly of the Frost-Biters, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. At that moment I could tell that this gigantic Queen-Ogre was prepared to make an example of any Tyrant who did not hold themselves to the high standards of his station. And so they watched the spectacle, hungry and fearful, until the rays of the morning sun drowned out the light of the torches, and they finally retired to their quarters, to enjoy the trifle morsel of food the rations permitted them.

Such is the brutal existence of the Ogre. Before us always stretch green pastures that seem to burst with endless promise, but behind us there is left nothing but rock and waste. This is the gift of the Maw to its chosen people. To the mighty Ogre race - the ever-stalwart, the ever-feasting, the ever-hungry, and the ever-fearful.

The Tribes of the Ochre Horde

Many are the Tribes that form the nomadic hordes of the Ochre Banners. Some are small, and I’ve only ever seen a handful of their members, though perhaps there are more of them amongst the splinter caravans. Some are members of larger Ogre tribes in the mountains - the Blooded Gut Tribe, the Angry Fist Tribe, and the Goldtooth Tribe to name but a few of those that are here present. It is strange to think that there should be populations of such great kingdoms here, but the curious interplays between Tribe and Kingdom are a story for another time. Of all the many Tribes who follow the Ochre, three are the most numerous, powerful and influential:

The first of these is the Vulture Tribe - master hunters and beast-riders, their members are easily and immediately recognisable, not only for their broad, flat hats, made no doubt with the same techniques used to make the Ogre’s notorious gut-plates, but largely because of their frankly ridiculous gait. Watching a Vulture walking is akin to watching an infant’s first steps - they waddle widely from side to side, slowly and clumsily, simply because the Vultures walk only on rare occasions. Indeed they spend the majority of their lives on the backs of their ferocious beasts of war; their legs, cloddish on the ground, are remarkably powerful, and excellent at gripping onto the saddles of their mounts, allowing them to stay firmly atop their steeds, even as they rage and toss in the frenzied melee of battle.

The second of these is the Black Hand Tribe; highly respected by all others for some ancient prestige, these Ogres burn offerings to the Maw before every battle, smearing the still piping hot ashes from their fingertips down to their elbows - no doubt as a show of resilience as much as commitment to war. The black soot later remains in the crevices of their wrinkles and fingernails, and the smell of ash clings onto them, such that even outside of battle every Ogre knows when they are near a Black Hand. Positions of leadership and responsibility are often awarded to these hardy and especially rotund warriors, who earn said positions through demonstrable bravery and prowess in battle. Some say the only true sight of a lost battle is when the Black Hands begin to fall back.

The last and most mysterious of the three great tribes are the Frostbiters. They are all of an especially quiet and measured disposition, though that is not to say they are any less violent. They are known as notorious mountaineers and beast-hunters by the other tribes, and are at all times adorned with the pelts of the ice-beasts they have slain. The Frostbiters are more often found in the splinter groups than in the central camp, though it is my understanding that they are numerous, and often form the bulk of a battle-line. They are also the most hegemonous of the Tribes - while there are a handful of different skin-tones found amongst the Vultures, Black Hands, and other tribes, nearly all the Frostbiters share the same pale green skin tone - a specific skin tone also rarely found amongst other tribes.

The Many Tongues of the Ogre

Another curious interplay in a group of Ogres so large and dynamic as this one is the matter of language. It may be apparent by this point, to whomever may be reading this journal, that I am able to communicate in the tongue of the Ogre. The fact is that I have mastered not only the Grumbarth tongue often heard from the foetid mouths of Ogres in the Empire, but numerous other Ogrish languages, for the denizens of the Mountains of Mourn do not speak in a single unified tongue, and neither does the horde that from those cold peaks henced. At first it was difficult to discern different languages spoken by the Ochre Tribes. Many Ogres speak three or four of these languages, and the higher echelons of society, such as Bruisers and Butchers, often master twice as many (though I must presume this is simply as a matter of familiarity and convenience, rather than study). The differences between these languages are at times slight, and my passing acquaintance with Grumbarth went some way as a steady foothold from whence to expand my understanding, following, as many do, similar sentence structures and sounds to that tongue from my memory. Some however are considerably different.

The Vultures are a peculiar group, for they sometimes speak amongst themselves in a strange tongue that most others are unfamiliar with. This tongue of theirs bears many similarities with Gospodarinyi - the language of Kislev, at least in its sounds and in a wide cache of loan words. My own familiarity with that language has allowed me to decipher some of the exchanges between Vultures, and I have discerned that this tongue is often used to discuss matters of beast-herding, riding, and internal tribal traditions - in a sense it could be said this is a sacred language to them, and is thus not openly shared with outsiders to their tribe.

One minor tribe seem to speak in a mixture of Grumbarth and Khazalid - the tongue of the Dwarfs in the World's Edge Mountains. Truly this is perplexing to me. It is not clear whether these were once friends, slaves, or close trade partners of the Dwarfs, but aside from the language this tribe seem to have brought with them many aspects of their culture as well - opting (or at least attempting) to grow long, thick beards; tattooing their skin with clumsy imitations of the knot-and-twist patterns often seen on Slayers; and worshipping an aspect of the Great Maw that shares many resemblances to the Dwarven ancestor god Grimnir; especially numerous boisterous tales of the many great beasts and foes that were defeated by it in elder days of yore.

The Frostbiters, ever the mysterious tribe, have a language that I have yet to decipher - though when I hear it I feel almost as though I already understood it. It shares similarities with so many of the other Ogre languages I've become familiar with, and yet remains highly consistent, as though they had been lending from it rather than the other way around. It may be possible that this language is a very ancient form of Grumbarth, spoken by the very first of their race to topple the sky-giants, and maintained largely unchanged through ritual and tradition. Though I must admit this is nothing more than speculation.

Ghorte's Gnoblars

As I have stated in previous journal entries, Gnoblars are a common sight wherever an Ogre can be found. They scurry along the ground, picking through the trinkets and leftovers of their wasteful masters; they waddle under heavy loads in the service of warriors and leaders; they esquire for the Leadbelchers, bringing gunpowder, cannon-fodder, and even the occasional cannonballs into battle; they polish the armour, weapons, and trinkets of the Tyrant; they chronicle the voyages and great deeds of the Man-eater; they groom the bestial fur of the Rhinox; they even keep the tusks of the mournfang who, surely finding them too meagre and distasteful a meal to be worth the effort, tend to permit them closer to their jaws than virtually any other creature. Being as I am, in essense, a Gnoblar, I must contend with the fact my existence is only tolerated for my usefulness (as my skills are too meagre and my flesh to delicious to allow I should subsist as a scavenger). That use is to aid my mistress Ghorte in the preparation of her gastromantic victuals - and I am naturally not alone in that task. Though I am her only word-knower, there are a number of other servants in her employ fulfilling various tasks from scrubbing pots to gutting fresh kills, using their small, dexterous fingers to separate the various ingredients to be found within a beast's innards. Though their jobs are important, they are menial, and thus there are about a dozen Gnoblars variously named Scrubber, Gutter, Cutter, and so on and so forth. Yet, aside from myself, there are 3 Gnoblars of unique name, whose services are not easily replacable.

The first of these is Wiener. Weiner is a large, heavy-set gnoblar (by the standards of a Gnoblar, that is) with a remarkable patience. I call it patience for it is difficult to imagine these Greenskins are capable of the emotions of love and care. But patience or not, Wiener is a capable carer of all forms of cattle. Pigs, yaks, goats, and more, he is well versed in how to feed them, how to groom them, and how to keep them fit and healthy. The purpose of this husbandry of animals however is not to acquire labour nor food (though these they do provide as a bonus), but principally sacrifices. The foul magick of the Great Maw can be practiced with an unthinkably broad range of ingredients, such as roasted meats, smoked fish, pickled vegetables, and even dried algae (which so far in land I am sure must be a challenge to acquire). Yet often the most powerful and visceral of incantations will demand the freshest of ingredients, and this will be when one of Wiener's beautiful creatures, preemptively adorned with ritual ochre paint, is brought forth. The beast's relatively peaceful and comfortable life will be ended in gruesome manner to secure the blessings of the terrible deity.

Another is Firemaster, who was taught by humans to handle fire before they were eaten by Ghorte (a fate which I am grateful I somehow avoided). He is short and scrawny, hunched, eternally wheezing and coughing, bearing numerous searing scars, and his hands and nose are charred and burned such that they issue a thin ashen dust whenever he sneezes a glob of black snot. Yet in spite of his frankly pittiable appearance, Firemaster has a peculiar understanding of the properties of fire - whenever a flame is needed, he can conjure it at a moment's notice; he carries sticks, ropes, flints, and any number of trinkets capable of producing sparks and cinders, and so adept is he at stoking them he can grow a hearth from a sputter even in heavy rain, in thick fog, or in baleful wind. He knows too how to best use the properties of fire, building fireplaces that somehow burn brighter and hotter than I've ever seen in any human settlement, and bringing water to a boil faster than any kettle I've ever seen. Perhaps his one downside is his love of the fiery creature, for he is always reticent to put out a flame, and even in his free time he delights himself by setting ablaze rats, birds, worms, and any other critters he can get his sadistic little hands on. Nevertheless, it seems that he is the single most useful of all the Gnoblars in my mistress' employ. Yet, useful though he is, he is not the mistress' favourite. That title goes to Soft-Hands alone.

Soft-Hands is the Gnoblar through whom I communicated before I mastered the languages of the Ogre, for he alone spoke a surprisingly sofisticated level of Reikspiel. He is a thin Gnoblar of average size, though he looks taller than he is because he does not tend to hunch over as much as his grotty brethren. He is not strong, he is not particularly skilled, and he doesn't fulfill many practical duties in our mistress' service. But one thing I can say for certain about him, above all of Ghorte's other Gnoblars, is that Soft-Hands is her friend. They can always be found where the other is; talking, laughing, eating, and sleeping in each other's company. Ghorte tolerates us, her servants, for our various uses in her heathen rituals, but Soft-Hands is the only one she actively seems to like. This however is not to say that Soft-Hands has no duties to fulfill, for though he tends to simply watch, or reprimand other Gnoblars during her culinary rituals, outside of the kitchen Soft-Hands keeps eternally busy. Whenever Ghorte is resting, sleeping, or even talking to him, Soft-Hands routinely grooms his mistress, picking ticks out of her armpits, plucking bone-splinters from her gums, or sifting through her hair for lice and mould and moths. Once or twice in a month he will even unwind Ghorte's tight, long braid of crass hair to wash it diligently with oils and fats (though 'washing' may be a strong word for this ritual). It is peculiar to see that a creature so brutish, vile, and revolting can still express such sentiments of friendship and belonging towards another creature - especially one she might easily kill by accident.

Thanks for posting - enjoyed that- good characters and world building.

Have you read Wild Kingdom by Robert Earl which has a girl who has grown up living with Gnoblars and Ogres

 Mr Morden wrote:
Thanks for posting - enjoyed that- good characters and world building.

Have you read Wild Kingdom by Robert Earl which has a girl who has grown up living with Gnoblars and Ogres

Thanks! Glad you're enjoying it!

I've not read that book, though I am aware of it. I'd like to get my hands on it at some point though.

The Rise of a Tyrant

Today I witnessed something extraordinary, even by the standard of barbaric experiences that are a common occurrence in my everyday. A spectacle of such brutality and violence that to merely watch should satisfy the savage demands of a score of Orcs. Today a new Tyrant was crowned.

The reader may be aware that Ogre hierarchies are structured entirely around strength. After surviving the various trials of youth, a young Ogre will enter the field of war as a Bull. It is only once they have demonstrated their strength in war that they may hope to climb in the tribe’s hierarchy. A bull that lusts for gold as much as food may sell his services as a mercenary and become a Maneater. If the Bull is simply fat and strong enough, he will become an Irongut in time, and later perhaps even a Bruiser. Should he prove tenacious, he may steal a cannon from an Imperial or Dwarven army - or better yet, collect enough gold and other valuables to purchase one from that mysterious breed of betusked Dwarfs that inhabit some place beyond the reach of civilisation - and by this act become a Leadbelcher. If the Bull be cunning and fearless, or if he is disliked by his neighbours for breaking some taboo (anything from eating the Tyrant's Gnoblar to snoring too loud), he may become a Hunter, and adopt a lifestyle solitary. Even the whelps of prominent members of the tribe are not safe from this brutal society’s rituals - in fact, those born from a particularly colossal parentage have increased pressure on them to meet the great deeds of savagery and gluttony of their parents. The only exception to this rule of strength is found in those few who become Butchers, as this also necessitates a certain capacity for sensing and manipulating aetheric essences, and will often include a long period of apprenticeship under a capable Slaughtermaster.

But the ultimate test of strength is when an Ogre challenges his Tyrant for the right to rule. And this is precisely what happened today, as the sun sank behind the Western horizon, and the tribes readied to rest after a hard day's march. A Bruiser by the name of Umar-Ghuri, also known as Umar the Foetid, or Umar the Unwashed, stood before the tent of his Tyrant and bellowed a challenge that must have been heard in the splinter caravans. Silence befell the Ogres as they all were stopped in their tracks by the sound, watching, waiting for the Tyrant's reply. At length Umar's blubberous leader emerged from his tent - a giant, prestigious, and well-respected warrior; his armour cobbled together of pieces gathered from Cathay to Norsca; a history of war written with scars upon his skin; a life so storied he had a personal Gnoblar who'se only task was to remember and recount the many titles and deeds of his master. He walked up to his general, and with gutplates pressing against each other, he gave a stare that could have killed a Gnoblar in a second. It is my understanding that at this moment, calamity may yet have been averted - that if the Tyrant's intimidation could command enough respect, the Bruiser might back down, perhaps biding his time for a better time to challenge. This did not come to pass on this day, and every present member of the Red Horn tribe gathered to prepare the Mawpit for what was to come.

Every Tyrant of the Banners was present. In the warmth of torch-fire they took the choicest front-row seats around the pit, with every other Ogre crowding and climbing about each other to catch the awesome spectacle. The ones farthest at the back tied Gnoblars to long sticks and held them aloft, so they could watch and describe what was happening. Ghorte herself entered the pit, where the two combatants stood in their bare, leathery skins; ready for one of them to leave the world just as he had entered it. I myself held the bowl of ochre paint as she slapped her enormous hands on their backs, drew streaks across their faces, and toothed circles on their stomachs. Once the battle had been properly sanctified, the bout began.

The sound of the two masses of fat and muscle slamming against each other was nearly enough to knock me off my feet. The thundering of the titanic blows was only second to the din of screaming voices all around - taunting, encouraging, singing and gambling, the Ogres had worked themselves up into a state of rage such as I had never seen. They threw slabs of meat and price bones into the pit, showering the contestants in gore, though I could not tell whether these were offerings to the Maw, tributes that would go to the victor, or simply attempts at inducing an even greater blood-rage in the contestants. Perhaps it was all of it at once.

The Tyrant stood his ground, defending his crown with the might of a great bear of Kislev defending its territory. His opponent’s teeth could be heard cracking with almost every squarely landed punch, and at one moment he managed to lift his opponent wholesale and slam him down into the ground with such force that I felt it pushing up through my feet. And yet for all his might and ferocity, the Tyrant’s many winters had begun to tell on him.

Umar-Ghuri, his opponent, took one blow after another, blood gushing from his mouth and nose, but would not relent. After every colossal punch he stood, and threw himself at his opponent again. When the Tyrant’s swings began to grow slower, Ghuri pressed his advantage. The blows began to flow in the other direction. While at first I thought he was merely resilient, the young Bruiser proved he was astonishingly fast as well. When the hits began, they did not stop - one after another he threw his punches, headbuts, and gut-tackles. The Tyrant, pushed flat against the walls of the pit, in a last effort to save his title - and indeed his life - roared like a beast, grabbed the pudgy arms of his opponent, and gave such a strike with his bare head that it echoed in the thick night air.

The choir of screams fell silent. Not even the breath of the Ogres, or the twitching of the Gnoblars could be heard. We all stood perfectly still, leaning in so far it's a miracle none of us fell into the pit. All watched as these two men - these bestial creatures of size challenging reason, held their arms out, stumbling around the bloodied ground of the pit, trying to regain their balance. Their breathing was heavy, and stank of rusted iron. They looked at one another, and the air stood still. Then with two gargantuan roars, they threw themselves at each other, slamming their epic bodies like two boulders in an avalanche.

The two Ogres bounced off of each other, but where Ghuri managed to regain his balance after a moment, his lord, the Tyrant, fell back into the wet earth, mud mixed with gore, and began spouting blood. While his opponent still struggled for breath, the colossal creature, Umar-Ghuri, turned to the crowd, roaring and raising his arms in victory. The return of screams and bellows he received sounded like a volley of cannons, thundering across the hills. Ghuri paced around the Mawpit shaking his fists and spitting his voice at his new fellow Tyrants and loyal subjects as a shower of meat and gold and other trinkets fell into the pit. Young Bulls lamented their lost bets; Leadbelchers fired pure powder into the sky. The defeated Tyrant's Gnoblars were hunted like animals - crushed underfoot by the Ironguts; torn and twisted before being flung into the pit with their dying master, or stabbed vengefuly by the Gnoblars they had always bullied. Finally, Umar stood over his defeated foe. They looked at one another one last time, before the grim victor presented the most malicious and blood-soaked smile I’ve ever witnessed. He rose his fists into the sky once more, and with a jump threw down his entire body - which I estimate must be about as heavy as three war horses - crashing on his helpless opponent’s head.

The occasion naturally was cause for celebration. A Tyrant's position is not easily challenged, and many times the king-ogre will simply dispatch an over-ambitious challenger - the weight of age counterbalanced by experience gained through an hundred battles. Yet the crowning of a new Tyrant is truly a spectacular event, worthy of a mighty feast. We ready for this feast as I write, preparing to welcome the new Tyrant: Umar Stone-Gut, lord of the Red Horn tribe, into the leadership circles of the Horde. But of course this feast shall be a second course for Umar-Ghuri. He had his first one-man feast just after the match, still in the Mawpit, where he so enjoyed his meal there was no need of a burial for his defeated master.

Appologies all for all the time away - I was finishing my Msc degree at uni and after that needed a rest from writing.

Hope everyone enjoys the new chapter!

The Little Round Ones

I have had the misfortune, in my years of captivity, of observing that Ogres procreate in verily alike a manner as men - as a bull and a whench consummate, a child is born to them: small and frail on birth, yet growing fatter and stronger day by day. As Ogres spend much of their leisure time in resting and merry-making there seems to be little worry that the monstrous hordes will every run short of whelps - or 'little round ones' as they are often called by the Ogres, and indeed, though they are rarely if ever seen upon the battlefield, their camps are forsooth plagued by the loud, brutish, and vicious creatures that pass for children in their eyes: enjoying the screaming of the Gnoblars as they twist their ears and pull their noses; chasing after small pests to eat; or simply beating each other with sticks and rocks for fun.

Parentage in the Kingdom of the Ogre, however, is a strange matter to document. There is little to be said in terms of 'common practices' amongst the varying tribes, for they differ in their approach to child rearing - sometimes slightly, sometimes greatly. There are tribes that form family units between a bull and a wench who will together raise a litter of blubberous monsters. There are tribes where the whelps only reside with their mothers until they can lift a club, at which point they will join the household of the father, learning thence the bellicose trade of their progenitor. In some tribes whelps are considered to belong to the whole tribe, and parentage is never as important as the natural strength and girth of the child. There is however one common practice amongst the Ogres that can only be described as the open trading of children.

The Ochre Banners hold a peculiar balance in the relationship between tribes and kingdoms. It can be likened that the nomadic Ochre Horde is a 'kingdom of kingdoms', with each caravan being its own client-kingdom of anywhere from a dozen to hundreds - perhaps thousands of Ogres. Tribes within this society exist across multiple caravans to various degrees. Vultures are most commonly found in the vanguard caravans that lead the trail whenever we set on the march; Black Hands are found in virtually every single caravan of the horde; and Frostbiters in almost none but their one single Caravan, which itself contains Frostbiters almost exclusively. But as anyone knows, for a people to survive, future generations must be procured - and for the Ogre creature, children are as tradeable a commodity as any other.

Yet I must digress. The tribal identity of a whelp is a dynamic matter - regardless their parentage, most are considered to be tribe-less creatures until they complete the tribe's initiation rite. This by extension means that a whelp's destiny is not set in stone, for nothing prevents them from completing a different tribe's rite, and thus joining their ranks in spirit. The little round one may be born from a Black Hand, and later seek to become a Red Horn. They may be born from unknown parentage and later join the ranks of the Vultures. Or they may be born into the same tribe as the mother, and kept there throughout their lives. Yet far from this representing some form of libertine autonomy for children to choose their own path, it is rather a despotic tyranny by which the child's destiny is subject to larger motions of state and need. When a tribe begins to see dwindling numbers - be it from war, tribal challenges, or plain bad luck (avalanches, thunderstorms, and disease being a somewhat common occurrence), the tribe will seek new whelps to grow its numbers by whatever means necessary.

The practices towards the procurement of whelps will vary from tribe to tribe. Black Hands care nothing for parentage, and no child born of a Black Hand is given the honour simply from heritage - instead, every child Ogre has the chance of becoming a Black-Hand if they demonstrate the strength, bravery, and fortitude to withstand the initiation rite, and the Black-Hands will keep an eye for, and often openly kidnap large whelps they see as fit to stand the rite (as always with the Ogre, the strong take what they want). The Angry Fist tribe is very proactive in seeking, not necessarily the strongest, but the especially bullyish and vicious whelps, sometimes agreeing to trade for them, but more likely beating the mother until she relinquishes the child (though it must be stated this is often not much of a beating, for the attachment a mother-Ogre feels towards her whelp seems to dwindle quickly after only a handful of years). Vultures never seek for Whelps - it is their belief that those born to be Vultures are blessed by a deity they call ‘Ursagh, Mother of Beasts’. She will guide the little round ones by the nose to the foetid stench of the Mournfangs, Rhinoxen, and Stonehorns of the caravan, and if the child survives exposure to such ferocious creatures for long enough, the Vultures will welcome the whelp into the tribe, teaching them their customs, their skills, and their tribal tongue until they are ready to take the rite.

The Frostbiters are perhaps the most decent in their approach to whelps - indeed they are almost alike to the civilised peoples of the world in this regard. Those born of a Frostbitten mother, so they hold, have been touched by the Breath of the Maw (their own aspect of the Great Maw, which resides in the storm and ice of the mountains), and may never leave the tribe of their own volition. Frostbiters never trade away their whelps, nor are they willing to accept them in negotiation - they may take in a lone whelp that is somehow attracted to the bitter cold that ever hangs about them (that is, of course, provided they don't decide to eat it instead), but in their eyes a child belongs with its parents, and parents have a right to choose for their child. Thus it is rare that a Frost-Biter will ever find their way into a different tribe; if ever another tribe seeks to take their whelps, the Frost-Biters stand together to prevent this; and even those that are exhiled from the clan more likely plough the lonely trade of the hunter than seek another to join.

I do not know to what extent this approach to child-rearing is shared by the sedentary tribes that reside in the Mountains of Mourn. It is likely again a matter that depends on the tribe. However I have heard rumour of a savage kingdom deep in the mountains who raid other tribes for whelps, keeping the strong for their ranks, selling the weak into slavery, and sending the rest to the Gold-Tooth tribe as their annual tribute to the ruthless Overtyrant.